Shards of Glass
by Alraune
Summary: The Malfoys are ostracised in the Wizarding World and Draco has to work as a beggar to pay for the medical care of his parents. At Christmas he meets Potter and old debts are paid…


Warnings: Slash, Lemon, Chara-Death, Language

Summary: The Malfoys are ostracised in the Wizarding World and Draco has to work as a beggar to pay for the medical care of his parents. At Christmas he meets Potter and old debts are paid…

A/N: This is a translation of my German story which I wrote some time ago for a challenge in a German forum. English is not my first language, so I hope there are not too many mistakes! This is a rather dark story, but I hope you will like it!

Merry Christmas! :)

xXx

With a sigh, Draco pulled the red wig from his hair, rubbed the freckles from his face with a dirty rag and began combing his hair that almost brushed his shoulders by now. He pulled a face at his once-so-beautiful hair that was so tangled now and cursed the fact that he was unable to have his hair done.

With a cord, he gathered his hair and shrugged off his tattered robe. Smiling thinly, he stroked the silky fabric of his robe which he had hidden in the false bottom of his wardrobe and put it on. It was the only of his robes he had saved from the confiscation of Malfoy Manor and he cherished it. So he only wore it when he was in his parents' room; otherwise he wore old jeans, a holey sweater and old slippers around the flat which he had stolen from the recycling bank.

"Draco!" he heard his mother's thin voice.

"I am coming, Mother!" he called back and hurried into the kitchen, taking the noodles he had prepared yesterday out of the fridge. He put them into the old microwave which came to life with a loud rattle and plucked a few herbs from the plant pots outside the window.

He carefully distributed the herbs on the noodles, which he had placed on good porcelain plates with the Malfoy emblem, and poured water, mixed with a few drops of cheap red wine, into tall wine glasses. He placed everything on a silver tray and walked into his parents' room, head held high and his eyes sharp and bright.

His parents' room was a bit muggy, as always, as the heavy velvet curtains were closed. His father skimmed through an old Daily Prophet, eyes squinting in the dim candle light. His once silver blond hair was now grey, his face wrinkled and hollow and his ankles swollen.

His mother sat bolt upright in the bed, ignoring the pillows Draco had stuffed behind her back, and held her hands out to him, beaming. "Draco, my sweet boy," she croaked and as always, he only realized when he was near her that her once bright eyes were dull and sunken now, her hair thin and her head balding from too much combing.

"Mother," he said, kissing her wrinkled lips and placing the tray in her lap. "How are you today?"

"I cannot complain, my darling. How is the Lord doing, my dear boy?"

"This afternoon he seized parts of Birmingham," Draco said, forcing himself to smile. "Everything is going well. He wishes for you to come back to health soon." His mother's cheeks turned pink with joy.

"This is not necessary, my boy, not necessary at all. Just listening to his deeds makes me feel my old strength again." She tried to curl her hand into a fist as proof, but it was no more than a weak crooking of fingers. She smiled hastily and inhaled the scent of the food Draco had prepared. "It smells most delicious, Draco."

Her trembling fingers reached for the silver fork and Draco picked it up again when it had slipped to the floor. "Enjoy your meal," Draco said with a smile and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Back in the kitchen, he carefully folded his robe and stowed it in the cupboard again. After he had finished cleaning the kitchen and the gagging and coughing from his parent's room had stopped, he returned and pulled a face upon seeing his mother. She lay on her back, bloody vomit on her pretty velvet dress, noodles all over the place. Her eyes were closed, her breath shallow, her thin grey hair spread like a fan.

His father sat in silence, tears in his eyes, and he looked away while Draco cleaned up the vomit, undressed his mother, changed the bed sheets and reached for his mother's second dress, a wispy dress of beautiful, midnight blue silk. He carefully cleaned her face and her upper body, white as chalk, with a wet cloth, dressed her again and pulled the covers up to her chin. "Draco, can't you –," his father whispered, his voice breaking.

Every day they had this conversation; in the beginning, Draco had wanted to cry, to scream, to hit his father when he didn't stop asking this particular question of Draco; but for some time now the questions had just rolled off him. "No, Father," he said calmly and stroked his Father's hand comfortingly. "I cannot and I will not." He quickly got up and hurried to the door before his father could crawl to him on his knees, clenching Draco's legs and begging him in a trembling, hoarse voice, as he had done before.

He did not look back when he left their tiny flat, consisting of only a bedroom his parents lived in, a tiny bathroom and the kitchen where he slept. He hurried to the laundry and stuffed his mother's dress and her bedcovers into a washing machine. While it rumbled, he produced some pieces of clothing from a second bag and began cobbling them. As they owned only few clothes – and most of it old and of bad quality – a lot of cobbling was to be done.

He scowled every time he stabbed his finger; his fingers were cold and swollen as he could not wear gloves throughout the day. Finally, the washing machine was done and Draco gathered his stuff, stowed the freshly mended clothing in his cupboard and peeked into his parents' room to make sure they were asleep. Only then he curled up on the thin mattress in the kitchen, and with his hands pressed up to the lukewarm heater he sunk into uneasy dreams.

xXx

The next morning, the shrill sound of his old-fashioned alarm clock woke him and when he got up, massaging his aching back, he wished for a comfortable bed and a warm room, as the heater was ice cold by now. He warmed his fingers on a mug of thin coffee and brought his father a few slices of toast. Luckily, his mother only had a glass of water for breakfast which meant he wouldn't have to go the laundry in the morning; and his father was capable of wiping up the water dripping from her mouth, when she was once again caught in feverish dreams, tumbling between consciousness and delirium.

Carefully, he checked himself in the mirror; the wig sat on his head neatly, his woollen hat had a few holes, just as his too large jacket and his shoes, which were also too large as he wore four pairs of socks. Only his fingers, wrapped in ragged pieces of cloth, were too clean, so he buried his fingers in a puddle of mud after leaving the house. Then he began his long, slippery way to work.

In every shop window there were dark green Christmas trees, decorated with golden Christmas baubles and burning candles, and Muggles dressed up as Santa Claus, shivering with cold and smoking cigarettes, were waiting for children to receive sweets and little gifts in front of the department stores. Pieces of a Christmas song and cosy warmth and light welled out of the door of a tiny pub; and Draco scowled at the grey sky and the huge, soft snowflakes that dampened his coat. He pulled a face as the snow would probably soak through his shoes and all of his socks – that he had neither lost fingers nor toes so far was only short of a miracle.

Silently, his eyes on the floor, he thrust his way through the Leaky Cauldron, which was already full to bursting in the morning, as there was hot chocolate and Christmas mead and a new pretty waitress dressed in a short red dress and a Santa's hat.

Today was the seventeenth of December and Diagon Alley was already bustling with wizards and witches keen on spending money and many of them had swapped their pointy hats for Santa's hats. Draco sat on a stack of wood, unpacked his tin bowl and waited. His head bowed, he mumbled, over and over again: "Only a bit of change… a few Knuts for a piece of bread… it's only a few days to Christmas, I beg you… just a few Knuts…" Luckily, goblins did not ask for names when they changed the Knuts he got into Muggle pounds, but he was quite sure they knew who he was. But they would not change Muggle pounds into Wizarding money if he didn't give a name – and as he was banned from Wizarding Society, he was in fact no longer allowed to carry their currency.

"Hey, Harry, look at that man over there." A child's loud, demanding voice abruptly interrupted Draco's singsong and he looked up. There was a boy, maybe four years old, with blue hair, a winter jacket, with little snowmen printed on it, and a pair of pants which had obviously been bought in a Muggle shop for ski clothing. Draco knew that because he had often stared longingly at the shop windows of Muggle stores for sport garments and wished for nothing but their marvellous ski garments.

Next to him was a slender man, about the same age and height as Draco, unusually tanned for the midst of winter and dressed in obviously expensive clothing. He wore a black hat, with his black hair peeking out underneath, black leather gloves and modern, black glasses with his green eyes bright as the enchanted Christmas baubles in Diagon Alley. Who else might it be but Harry Potter?

But obviously he did not recognize Draco as he put a hand on the boy's shoulder and examined Draco suspiciously. "What is it, Teddy?"

"He is freezing," the boy said, pointing at Draco's holey shoes. "Or aren't you cold?" he added politely.

"I am very cold," Draco murmured. "Please, I beg you, only a few Knuts, look, my fingers are turning blue already…"

"Why don't you give him some money?" the boy asked, and then added: "Or would you like to have my gloves?" Helpfully, he put forth his tiny hands and Draco couldn't help but laugh.

"That is very nice of you, little man," he said, "but I don't think they would fit me."

Impatiently the boy tugged Potter's cloak. "Harry!"

But Potter just stared at Draco, his green eyes narrowed to slits. "Do I know you?" he asked politely.

"How could you?" Draco replied, wishing he could check his wig again. "How would the grand Harry Potter know someone like me?"

"I have met very many people throughout my life," Potter said non-commitally. "But I think I remember your laugh."

"Do you?" Draco asked, laughing nervously and feeling ashamed for begging Potter, of all people. "Only a few Knuts, Sir…"

Potter sighed, retrieved his wallet from his pocket and produced a few Galleons which he held out to Draco. Draco greedily reached for them, but the moment their hands touched, Potter grabbed his wrist and twisted it. Draco gasped with surprise, the boy screamed and Potter shoved back Draco's sleeve so the Dark Mark was visible.

"Malfoy," he said grimly, his thumb touching the long, white scar under the faded skull.

Draco accepted that denial was futile. "Potter," he said and looked at him, feeling calm though he didn't know why.

As though he had burned himself on Draco's cold hand, Potter dropped his arm and stepped back. "Didn't make it far, did you?" he asked and it was hard to tell whether he was sympathetic or scornful.

"That is also your fault," Draco replied.

Potter snorted. "This is your way of thanking me for saving your and your family's sorry arses from Azkaban? For working my butt off to get you out of there? For swearing binding, magical oaths on your innocence?"

"Am I supposed to fall to my knees and thank you for your mercy?" Draco scoffed. "You can see for yourself how fantastically my life has worked out. I thank you with all of my heart, Potter."

Potter's eyes were like green steel, then he pulled out his wallet again and emptied its contents on the floor so Galleons and Sickles and Knuts were rolling all over the ground. "Take it!" he hissed. "Take it and stop being so damn ungrateful!"

He whirled around, grabbed the boy's wrist and pulled the howling child with him. Draco waited a few seconds, then he fell to his knees, crawling over the cold, wet floor and picking up all of the coins. There were twenty-five Galleons and so many Sickles and Knuts he wasn't sure he had counted them correctly. He stuffed all of them into his pockets and decided it was enough for today.

While strolling back home through the cold streets of London, muddy with brown snow, he remembered the day he had received the scar.

xXx

_The courtroom was packed with people hoping for a scandal, greedy for revenge or coveting for justice; all of them staring at his family with looks of reproach. A murmur went through the crowd like a wave when his family was lead before the High Court. His father, unshaved, in a grey cloak which was given to the prisoners for their trial; his mother, bowed with grief, her hair unkempt; and Draco himself, trembling in his too big cloak and worried for their fate._

_The accused had to sit in the first row, on hard benches of wood, and directly behind them were the witnesses. Draco felt warm breath on his neck, strangely comforting in this huge, cold hall full of stone and hatred. Curious to know who breathed there, so warm and alive, he turned around and caught a glimpse of Potter's face. Normally, it was full of emotions, but today it was like a mask of ice and his eyes were like cool emeralds. Only his trembling hands revealed that he was truly Potter and not only a statue. He didn't pay any attention to Draco, but neither to his friends, sitting left and right of him._

_Silently, Draco listened to the prosecutor reading the charges and demanding a life sentence in Azkaban, supported by screams and howls of the crowd; and the judge asking the witnesses to speak. The accused were not allowed to speak._

_Granger stood and talked about the Malfoys' role in the war, how they had first fought for the Dark Lord and then changed sides. She emphasized his mother's role who had saved Potter's life, but she also said they would have betrayed them again, just to rise in the Dark Lord's grace._

_There was a furious whisper, sounding like a thousand snakes hissing "traitors"; and Draco shuddered, closing his eyes. He knew it was over. They were hated, condemned, and the crowd wanted to humiliate them, to see them humbled and devastated, wanted to give them to the Dementors' Kiss._

_He, Draco, might be lucky, as he was young, as he had wanted to save his parents, as his soul did not yet seem to be as corrupted as his parents'. But their lives were forfeited; and he took his mother's hand, trembling. Her hand was slack, lifeless and cold as ice and she did not squeeze his fingers, she only stared at the judge with dull, empty eyes._

"_Mr. Harry James Potter," the judge said, shuffling through his documents. "You asked the Wizengamot to discharge the Malfoys and you are willing to swear magical oaths on their innocence and their help for our side in the war. Please speak up."_

_Potter stood, and though Draco's eyes were closed, he could feel that Potter's hands were clenched around the back of their bench as though he needed to hold onto something for his speech. "Look at them," he said. "Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa Malfoy nee Black, old money nobility, Purebloods, blinded by their ancestors' views, caught in a net of self-spun intrigues and subject to Voldemort. Who once knelt before Voldemort may not rise again without losing everything. They murdered, tortured, lied, corrupted, bribed." Draco heard his father inhale sharply and he took his father's hand too, slick with sweat, squeezing Draco's fingers. "They would have betrayed us, would have betrayed me. Because of them, we might not sit here. But without them we would not sit here, either. It was Draco Malfoy who denied my identity though he knew it was me. It was Narcissa Malfoy who saved my life though it might have cost her own. The Malfoys rebelled against Voldemort silently, they recognized their mistakes and regretted them. Look at them, are they not humiliated enough yet? Discharge them."_

_During his last sentences, his voice had gotten older and more tired; in the end he almost sounded like Dumbledore. Draco dared not breathe while the judge discussed with the Wizengamot in whispers and let his eyes wander over the crowd. Some seemed convinced by Potter's speech and looked at them almost pitifully whereas others gave them glares so full of hatred they burned on Draco's skin._

_Finally, the Wizengamot seemed to have made a decision and Draco knew that everyone held their breath when the judge cleared his throat to pronounce the sentence. "Upon critical consideration," he said, "we have decided that the Malfoys are guilty of their charges, but their guilt may be counterbalanced by some of their deeds at the end of the war. They will not be sent to Azkaban." Draco saw his father's shoulder sagging and thought it was with relief. If only he had known… he would have begged on his knees for his parents to be sent to Azkaban._

"_But their wands will be broken, their fortune and Malfoy Manor will be confiscated and from now on they will not be citizens of the Wizarding World any longer," the judge continued and Draco felt his heart clenching; they were banned, but anything was better than Azkaban. "Mr. Potter, you will have to swear your oath later on. Aurors!"_

_Aurors stepped near them and one of them held up their wands. Then he raised the other hand and bowed the wands slightly, grinning. Instinctively, Draco wanted to hold him back, but he was pulled back so violently his head hit the back of their bench and his wrist crashed against the edge of the bench. There was a soaring pain in his wrist and he almost fainted. He would have sagged to the floor, if he hadn't been held up by an iron grip on his collar. "Don't be stupid, Malfoy," Potter hissed into his ear, his mouth so close Draco thought Potter's lips must almost touch his ear. "Assaulting an Auror? This will make everything a lot more difficult; be glad you're alive and free and you're not rotting in Azkaban."_

_He let go of him and Draco stumbled a few steps forward until he managed to stand upright. His wrist was pulsing with dull pain and their wands were but a few splinters of wood, and with a scornful look in his eyes, the Auror dropped the rests of their wands to the floor. As soon as their wands were broken, the Aurors ripped everything from them, until they wore nothing but the thin shirt and trousers of prisoners. As though they didn't exist any longer, the Aurors turned and left, none of them paying attention to them any longer. The crowd began to move towards the exit, many of them spitting on the floor and hooting and threatening them._

_His mother had crumbled to the floor, her face old and wrinkled and white as snow. Her eyes were closed, her head lolling to the side and her arms and legs were like branches, skinned of their bark – lost and fallen and without protection. "Come, Draco," his father said, bowing down to his wife and pulling her up by her shoulders. "We are leaving."_

_For a few seconds, Draco just stared at his father, the people around him nothing but a rush of colours and voices, then he picked up his mother by her knees with his unhurt hand; and together they staggered out of the Court Room. His mother's silver hair dragged over the floor and somehow, it seemed to be the final sign for Draco that they had lost._

Draco smiled grimly and curled his hands into fists. Potter had broken his wrist back then, but he might have forgiven him for that. But he could not forgive him for what he had done to his family. But now, he had an opportunity for revenge, and revenge had never seemed so sweet.

xXx

Draco spent the next days in Diagon Alley again, loitering in front of the building where he had met Potter and waiting. Four days before Christmas, Potter showed up again, his arms filled with dark green twigs, with fairies dancing around them and singing Christmas songs in their high voices. But he did not seem to be particularly happy and not even the bags full-to-bursting, dangling from his arms, seemed to make him any happier.

When he recognized Draco, however, he stopped and scowled at him. "You again," he said darkly.

"I am sorry," Draco said, "but unfortunately I could not buy myself a nice, warm house with the money you gave me."

Potter pulled a face. "If you think I will shove all of my money down your greedy throat, think again. Just be glad you're not in Azkaban."

"Do you expect me to be grateful?" Draco taunted.

"No, I don't," Potter said, "I don't expect that of you."

"Oh, but I would love to show you my gratitude," Draco replied sharply. "Might I carry your bags?"

Potter was quiet for a few seconds, then he said: "What do you want, Malfoy? If you want me to give you money, you're on the wrong track."

"Who said I wanted something from you? In fact, I owe you."

"Name something you might give me," Potter said, piercing him with a dark look. "Name something that might be useful for me."

"Why, what do you need, Potter?" Draco asked, spreading his arms. "Tell me what you have need of and I am willing to serve – for an appropriate reward, of course."

Potter raised his eyebrows. "You are probably the last person I should ask, but I'm still looking for the perfect Christmas gift for Ginny."

"Is she demanding?"

"More than you could know."

"Well, that is unusual for a Weasley. But she slept her way to the top, didn't she?"

"I don't know why I even asked you," Potter hissed furiously. "How could I ever expect anything from you but scorn?" He whirled around and stormed off; the fairies dancing around his head and singing "Jingle Wands" on top of their lungs made his dramatic departure somewhat ridiculous.

Draco's lips twitched, then he called: "Give me three days and you will be surprised!"

However, Potter didn't turn and Draco could follow him easily to the Leaky Cauldron, once again bustling with customers. Potter stepped into the fireplace and clearly said: "Oak Street 25, London."

xXx

After Draco had looked after his parents (he kept forgetting which cities the Dark Lord had seized already and the constant laundering slowly ruined his mother's dresses), he gave a good night kiss to his mother and a Valium to his father; he had begged Draco for it since he could not stand his wife any longer.

Then he started his long, cold way to Oak Street 25, London, armed with an old street map of London. It was already past eleven when he arrived; snow was still falling and soaking through his clothes and shoes. There was light behind two windows and Draco carefully climbed over the garden fence to get nearer to the house. It was painted in peach, unusually bright in the dull streets of London, and the garden was frozen as a beautiful landscape of snow. A fire was burning behind one window and he crept nearer. Weasley sat before the fire, braiding her long red hair and staring into the flames, lost in thought. Suddenly, an alarm clock shrilled and both of them jumped, but she got up quickly and walked into the next room.

Shortly after she returned with a baking tray full of ginger bread looking like tiny people, each of them carved out and decorated carefully, and cooled them with a wave of her wand. There was a delicious smell and Draco sighed when she stowed them in a container decorated with Christmas trees. Then she picked up a large tome and began reading. As she didn't seem about to do anything interesting for the next hour, Draco looked around and discovered a lattice, overgrown with ivy, which seemed perfect to get up to the first floor.

Slowly, he climbed up, his cold fingers clawing to the rain gutter so he would not fall down while peeking through the bright window. As he had expected, Potter was there, in a white shirt with his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened, wrapping up presents. A considerable stack was growing on the floor and he was just wrapping a Science Kit for Young Witches and Wizards into and made the little Santa Clauses printed on the paper come to life with a poke of his wand.

Then he looked at the things gathered on the table before him and his face fell a bit. Sceptically, he inspected a long, black evening gown which was covered in tiny gemstones and which would surely look breath-taking on Weasley. After a few minutes of consideration he wrapped it in golden wrapping paper and placed it in his lap.

Amused, Draco watched Potter wrapping more and more obviously expensive gifts into the same golden paper, among them a choker so beautiful it seemed like out of a dream, a few books, the newest racing broom (which cost considerably more than Draco had ever gotten in his life as a beggar) and so on. Draco had known Potter was rich, but _that_ rich? Frowning, he did the maths: The Potters had been among the richest families; Potter had also inherited the Black fortune; he had received a horrendous amount of money from the Ministry for having saved the Wizarding World; and surely he got a load of money for working as Head Auror. Draco pinched his lips; oh yes, Potter was rich, and he would take advantage of that.

In the meantime, Potter had buried his head in his hands, shaking his head slowly as though he could not believe what was happening. He remained in this position for a while, so Draco climbed to the other side of the lattice as he heard a door opening and closing. He didn't feel ashamed to watch Weasley changing. She took off her black pencil skirt and her white blouse and levitated them into her cupboard, which almost burst with clothes. Then she put on black lace underwear, examining herself critically in the floor-length mirror, and brushed her hair until it looked like waves of copper tumbling down her back. She slid under the covers to wait for Potter, obviously.

Draco smiled thinly; clearly he would get right a show tonight. His only hope was that Potter would hurry to get to the bedroom as he could no longer feel neither his fingers nor his toes and he feared he might fall to the ground if Potter didn't show up soon enough.

But as though Potter had heard his wish, he stepped into the bedroom, smiled at his wife and began to undress himself. He was in good shape, Draco thought, watching him critically, all tanned and with well-defined muscles – so unlike Draco himself, with every bone visible under his skin, white as snow. Weasley could count herself lucky.

Weasley sat up when Potter was about to lay down; the covers slid down and revealed her black bra which stood off against her skin, pale as milk. She flipped her hair back, smiling, and Potter froze. For a moment it seemed as though Potter were afraid, but this moment did not even last a blink; then Potter pressed Weasley onto the bed and kissed her.

Draco was rather bored while watching Potter and Weasley having sex, as it was really unspectacular. Potter was tender and careful and looked like he was exerting himself to do everything perfectly; and when he entered her, Weasley turned her head and Draco saw that there was no lust in her eyes, but desperation instead.

Draco sighed in relief when Potter turned off the light and covered himself with the bed sheets, as it meant that deliverance for his numb hands and feet was near. Neither of them looked like they were about to fall asleep, though Potter had draped his arm around Weasley and pulled her close. None of them spoke and only their eyes were shining in the moonlight.

Without making a sound, Draco climbed back down and over the fence and pondered about what he had seen. Slowly, a vague plan formed in his head, an idea how he might kill two birds with one stone. What Weasley wanted was the least thing Potter wanted – so he, Draco, would fulfil her wish, which would make his revenge so much sweeter. He would live up to the Malfoys' name, and to Slytherin's.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, he sneaked back into their tiny flat, but as soon as he had closed the door he heard his father's voice: "Draco, please! Draco, come here, please…"

Immediately he rushed into his parents' room which smelled even muggier than normally. His father sat on the bed, shoulders shaking, his mother's head placed in his lap. He looked at Draco, tears streaking down his face. "Your mother," he whispered, "she is gone…"

Draco could not think as he ran to the bed, knelt down, pulled his mother close and feverishly tried to find a pulse – there, yes, there was a pulse, but so weak… "Mother!" he called, shaking her and her head lolled from side to side like a doll's, but he could hear her shallow breath. "Mother… Mother, can you hear me? Oh, Mum, please…"

She groaned and with a choked sob, his father clasped his hands over his mouth. "Oh, Narcissa –"

"Mum," Draco whispered, brushing curls of hair from her face. "Mum…"

"Draco," she breathed, her voice so faint and far away. "Draco, my sweet boy, where have you been? I almost died with worry…"

"We had a special Death Eater meeting," Draco said, his voice breaking. "Mother, the Dark Lord made me his second-in-command."

A smile brightened her sunken, grey face and made her look almost alive and healthy. "Draco, such honour… my sweet boy, my beloved son…" She began crying with joy and Draco pulled her in an embrace, rocking her back and forth slowly. "It is so wonderful I almost can't believe it… so high among the ranks of the Dark Lord…"

"He wants to keep it secret," Draco whispered. "But soon enough, we will be lavished with glory. Father will receive a special rank, and he and I will be his closest advisors, just imagine the glory, Mother… He will visit us, visit our Manor, and there will be marvellous balls and celebrations; and we will be the Dark Lord's most loyal and the most respected servants."

His father had turned his head away, but his mother looked at him with huge silver eyes, shining with tears, and finally she fell asleep of exhaustion with a smile on her face. Draco stroked her thin, grey hair, arranged the pillows under her head and kissed her forehead.

"You should not do that, Draco," his father said, voice rough with fatigue. "It might be easier, if only –"

"No, Father," Draco interrupted him sharply. "I will find a way, trust me. I am closer to being able to help both of you than I have ever been."

"You don't have to do this, Draco," his father said. "Just look at what we have become… our name is dishonoured, we are humiliated…" He tried to laugh, but it sounded hollow. "Do not worry about us anymore, leave, go to another country, there you may start all over again. We are nothing but a burden to you. Your mother and I, we will perish, but you… you are young and healthy and gifted, you may rise again… it would be a pity to waste the Malfoy blood."

Draco shook his head. "No matter what you say, Father, I will not leave you." Gently, but firmly he pushed his father into the pillows, pulling the cover over him, and left the room.

When he lay on the mattress on the kitchen floor, it was not the cold creeping into his bones that made him unable to fall asleep, but it was the icy hand of pure terror, clenching his heart and keeping him awake for hours and hours. But his terror could not be washed away with a bottle of cheap alcohol, which he drank desperately, and sleep only found him when he swallowed a Muggle sleeping pill.

xXx

The next morning, his mother was surprisingly well, she even sat up, when Draco stepped into their room, exhausted and freezing. Smiling, she reached for him and squeezed his hands with her cool fingers. "How are you today, Mother?" he asked, tenderly brushing some curls of hair from her forehead.

"I am always well, as long as you are with me, my sweet son," she said, smiling, and kissed his fingers. While she slowly drank a glass of water, she did not ask about the Dark Lord even once, but asked Draco over and over again if he was truly well, if he might want to travel to another country with them, some place where the sun shone.

"I will, Mother, as soon as you are healthy again," he promised.

"But I feel healthy again," she said, looking to the closed curtains dreamily. Draco hastily opened them and the shabby houses in their neighbourhood looked almost picturesque, their ugliness hidden underneath the snow. "I think I only need a few more days and I might be able to walk on my own…"

For the first time in years, there was a smile on Draco's face; his mother was getting better, wasn't that wonderful? Why his father turned away and began to sob, he did not know.

xXx

Today was the twenty-third of December and Draco waited in front of Potter's house, hidden behind some bushes, when Weasley stepped out of the door. She gave Potter a kiss and said, smiling: "I'll be back in about two hours. I should be done with shopping by then." She wore a Santa's hat and carefully walked along the slippery path on her high ankle boots while humming to herself under her breath. Draco waited until he could see her no longer, then he went to their front door and rang the bell.

Potter opened the door and immediately wanted to slam it again, but Draco had guessed he might do that and pushed it back open. "Can I come in?" he asked, hugging himself. "I am freezing to death out here."

Potter hesitated for a moment, then he sighed and stepped back to let Draco enter. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Do you want to talk to me in the Entrance Hall?" Draco asked as though he had to remind Potter of the rules of courtesy. Potter seemed a bit embarrassed, at least, as he asked him in, offering him tea and gingerbreads – the ones Weasley had baked when he had watched her, Draco remembered. Potter put a few more logs into the fireplace and watched silently while Draco ate almost all of the gingerbreads – they tasted marvellously like triumph. And he was warm, he hadn't been that warm in months; compared to their flat it was almost tropical in Potter's house. Slowly he took off his coat and three of his five sweaters, rolling up his sleeves so his forearms, white as chalk, were visible.

"So," Potter said when they had sat on the beige leather couch which fit perfectly into the interior with ebony furniture. There was a huge dark green Christmas tree, decorated beautifully, in one corner, and huge pictures of beautiful landscapes as well as some modern art and photos of the small boy with blue hair on the walls. Everything looked very expensive. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

"I wanted to thank you," Draco said. "For saving us back then."

Suddenly, Potter seemed to be embarrassed, fidgeting in his seat. "That, well… I am sorry for what I said a few days ago. And I'm sorry about your wrist, too." Nervously, he took Draco's hand again, this time considerably more carefully than during their last meeting.

"It is fine," Draco said, but did not pull his hand back. "It healed a long time ago. No, the reason I came for… I think I might have found a Christmas gift for your wife."

"Really?" Potter asked, raising his head abruptly. "I already bought some things…"

"Believe me, none of them is what she wishes for," Draco said calmly. "I know, I watched you."

"You watched us?" Potter asked, frowning. "When? Where?"

"Some days ago," Draco replied.

"You mean you spied on us?"

Draco smiled. "Just like in earlier times."

"Did you also –"

"Of course," Draco said. "You think I have never watched a man and a woman before? But it was rather boring, if I may say so."

"You little piece of shit," Potter hissed at him, "are you not ashamed of yourself?" All of a sudden, he sat on top of Draco and grabbed both of Draco's wrists; and suddenly, the old Potter was back, his impetuous ferocity flashing up under expensive clothing, his eyes behind his glasses as bright as they had been in his youth, his old Seeker reflexes coming back underneath tame gestures.

"Obviously not," Draco replied calmly, pulled his hand from Potter's grip with a jolt and placed it on Potter's crotch. Potter inhaled sharply, staring at him with fierce, green eyes and then, suddenly, they kissed. It was not truly a kiss, though, rather a choked battle of their mouths, that made both of them gasp for air; and Draco tasted Potter's blood on his tongue.

He continued stroking Potter's growing erection with his right, clawing his left into Potter's white silk shirt. Meanwhile, Potter had shoved up Draco's sweater, smooth fingers stroking Draco's pale skin, which was not as flawless as it had been once; now his skin was rough and covered in bruises from his uncomfortable mattress on the floor.

But Draco did not mind, no one had kissed him like this for ages – and never before, anyone had kissed him with such long suppressed, fierce lust and greed – touched him with hot, hungry fingers which stroked and scratched and squeezed – gasping Draco arched his back to get closer to Potter.

They sat on the couch, legs and arms tangled, pressed up against each other, hands in each other's trousers. "You are such a wanker," Potter groaned into Draco's neck, biting into sensitive skin, "how dare you watching Ginny and me having sex?"

"It was boring, truly," Draco replied hoarsely, "what we are doing here would probably be a lot more exciting…"

Potter snarled something incomprehensible and ripped off Draco's trousers, throwing them onto the floor, just as the long-johns he had worn underneath, and his jumpers and Draco's underwear. He did not seem to mind that Draco's clothes were old and ugly and dirty, he only seemed to care for Draco's skin that was burning under his fingers, for his muscles that were trembling under his touches.

For only a moment, Potter hesitated, as though he were afraid of Draco, afraid of himself, afraid of what might happen; but then he closed his fingers around Draco's cock, moving his hand up and down; Draco groaned and wrapped his arms around Potter's neck, pulling him closer. For a long time, no one had touched him like this and it felt incredible. Forbidden, wrong and incredibly good. Forbidden, because he should already have asked Potter; wrong, because he wanted to take revenge on Potter; and good, because Potter's mouth was on Draco's throat and he covered Draco's flushed skin in butterfly like kisses.

But he had to concentrate; he had to pull himself together, he had to be rational, he mustn't lose control. And so slipped his fingers under Potter's shirt, stroking heated skin; and he opened Potter's trousers with deft fingers. Breathing heavily, Potter pulled Draco closer, when Draco touched his cock, and his kisses turned into bites and his fingernails scratched over Draco's stomach.

Draco shoved Potter off his lap and climbed on top of him, then he slid between his thighs; Potter groaned and let his head loll back, his face slick with sweat and his eyes dark with lust. At first, Draco only kissed the insides of Potter's thighs, careful not to touch Potter's hard, red cock before he took him into his mouth. Potter breathed deeply, as though he had been under water for a long time und broken through the surface again, and he buried his fingers in Draco's blond hair, pressing him deeper down.

Obediently, Draco took more of his cock into his mouth, licking first and then swallowing, slowly and deeply; and Potter moaned, the fingers of his left buried in Draco's shoulder and the fingers of his right pulling Draco's hair so fiercely he would have screamed, if only he could. Potter gave a half-choked scream that turned into a hoarse groan and slowly loosened his death grip on Draco.

Just as he had thought, Draco tasted no sperm and Potter's cock was only wet from his spit; but he did not know whether he was supposed to be happy about the fact that he had been right.

"God, Malfoy," Potter said in a rough voice. Draco knew that God was an omnipotent being some Muggles believed in and he wondered whether Potter believed in him, too, or whether he just tried to comprise his slowly fading orgasm. Then, as though he had suddenly remembered his duty, Potter took Draco's cock into his hand again, rubbing him, hard and fast, and just the way Draco liked it, and so different from how he had fingered Weasley.

For a moment, Draco permitted himself to let go of his control, to let himself fall, and he surrendered to Potter's deft hands, burying his fingers in Potter's hair. When he came, Potter hastily closed his hand in order to collect his sperm and he carefully licked up all of it so the couch would not get dirty.

"You have wanted that since we were at school, right?" Draco asked, brushing some strands of sweaty hair from Potter's face.

"Yes," Potter said after a few seconds of silence. "Yes, I did. But you did, too," he added.

"But unlike you I did not marry a woman," Draco replied.

"Who would have wanted to marry you?" Potter asked and bit his lip, as though he were not sure whether he wanted to hurt Draco or not.

But Draco only laughed. "Of course not, I was only a Death Eater's son, banned and humiliated…"

"Only in the Wizarding World," Potter said, shrugging, "you could have started all over again in the Muggle World with your parents."

Draco pulled a face, wondering how Potter could be so unknowing of his own fault. "Yes, can't you see how wonderful my new life is? I am a beggar in Diagon Alley, dressed up as a Weasley – which is probably the only reason why I have gotten a few Knuts so far. If people knew who I am they'd probably spit into my face."

"You might have tried getting a job," Potter said.

"You think I haven't?" Draco asked, shaking his head slightly. "I tried everywhere, for any job. I was willing to do the most humiliating work, but no one wanted me to work for them."

"And what about your parents?"

"My parents," Draco said calmly, "are ill. Critically ill. They will die soon." He wondered how he could speak so coolly.

"What? But they must go to St Mungo's –"

"Where they will only be treated if I can pay for the Healers. Don't think they will even do so much as lift a finger if I don't pay."

"What kind of disease do your parents suffer from?" Potter asked nervously.

"Magical consumption."

"But isn't this the illness my grandparents died of? Does it still exist?"

"It does. It is a seldom magical disease where a wizard's own magic assaults them, eating them up from the inside." Draco shuddered though he should be used to it by now as he could see its results every day with his own eyes. "The disease eats up all of their organs, their muscles, and their mind; they are hollowed out from the inside. And I cannot even place pain-killing spells on them – even if I had a wand – as this would only speed up the disease." Potter had closed his eyes, and his face was pale. "My mother has gone mad over it, you know. She has forgotten reality and now lives in her own world, where the Dark Lord is in charge and I am his second-in-command. And my father is breaking to pieces because he can't stand her being so far away…"

"How did it happen?" Potter asked hoarsely. "Why are they ill?"

Draco smiled a bitter smile. Slowly, they got to the point. "It is the Dark Lord's curse," he said. "A curse for those who would betray him twice. If only they had gone into Azkaban…"

Draco waited for a few seconds, then he – finally, finally – saw understanding in Potter's face; and guilt. A guilt Draco had thought he would enjoy, but, oddly, he only felt empty. "I had no idea," Potter said quietly.

"It does not matter," Draco said. "The most important thing is you did something heroic."

Potter looked as though he were tortured. "Please don't say something like that, please… if only I had known… I am sorry, truly sorry. Why did you never say anything?"

"You wouldn't have listened to me," Draco said quietly. "And you wouldn't listen to me now, if hadn't sucked your cock a few minutes ago." And Potter knew nothing, nothing of the moments when Draco was paralyzed, the world turning and tumbling around him and him standing, numbly, in the midst of it all; and when he didn't know if he shouldn't follow his father's wish, but no, never, never could he…

Potter buried his face in his hands. "Please, don't talk like that. Mal – listen, I will pay for your parents' treatment, alright?"

"You don't have to," Draco said, looking away, "it is not truly your fault." Of course he would get Potter with that one, he knew.

"But it is," Potter said, turning more and more into his old self with a hero complex. "I… I will organize everything. It's no problem at all. I will go to St Mungo's right now…" He sat up and seemed to realize only then that both of them were still half naked; embarrassed, he turned his head und pushed Draco from his lap, buttoning up his shirt and zipping up his trousers. "Mal – Draco, you, uhm, you may stay. Take whatever you need. I will be back in, say, an hour."

Draco said nothing, he only looked after Potter who disapparated with a loud bang as soon as he had left the house. For a few minutes he just sat there, wondering vaguely whether he should truly do what he had planned; then he climbed up the stairs and went into Potter's bedroom. He pulled a few clothes similar to the ones Potter had worn this morning from his wardrobe and he permitted himself to bury his nose in Potter's clothes and inhale the scent of freshly-washed clothes, with the faintest touch of Potter's own scent.

After he had put them on, he looked at himself in the huge mirror and felt more like a Malfoy than he had in years. He rummaged through the pockets of his own old trousers and produced a tiny vial with a viscous potion. Before their trial, Draco had managed to save a few things from their Manor – he had already suspected their trial might not go too well; among the things saved was this tiny bottle of Polyjuice Potion.

Carefully, he opened his fist and dropped a few of Potter's hairs into the potion. With a quiet hiss, the potion turned black, and when Draco downed the potion it tasted like dark chocolate. The transformation almost didn't hurt and the only things that seemed odd to him were the fact that he was about one inch smaller and everything was blurred before his eyes. Of course he didn't have Potter's glasses, so he had to squint his eyes in order to see his surroundings.

Then he hid his old clothes underneath a bush in their garden and sat back on the couch in the living-room, leafing through a newspaper absent-mindedly – something he hadn't done for ages. After only a few minutes he heard the key turning and he rose to greet Weasley.

She had taken off her Santa's hat and shook snow from her damp hair, before untying her ankle boots with the high heels. "Hi darling," she said and kissed Draco.

"Hi honey," Draco replied, trying not to make it sound forced, and took her bags, as Potter probably would have done.

"Oh, leave it, I'll put everything away in a few minutes," she said, checking her hair in the mirror.

"A beautiful woman like you shouldn't have to do something like that," Draco said, raising his eyebrows – his flirting skills had obviously gotten a bit rusty, but Weasley giggled.

"Lavishing me with compliments today, are you?" she said, nudging him with her elbow and almost danced into the kitchen. "But I like it."

Draco followed her into the kitchen, which was stuffed with Muggle equipment which had obviously gotten some magical upgrades as the fridge opened automatically as soon as Draco placed the bags on the table. Quietly humming to herself, Weasley stowed everything in the fridge and Draco helped her; and she giggled and flipped her hair, touching him lightly or pressing herself up to him every few moments.

When they were done, Draco obliged her obvious wish and lifted her up on the kitchen counter – it was a good thing Potter had more muscles than he did. "What is that supposed to be?" Weasley purred and winked at him.

Draco grinned and stroked her back with his hands; she pressed herself up to him, her legs spread, and kissed his forehead and cheeks, and finally his mouth. Draco kissed her back, while trying to calculate the time – he still had about fifteen minutes, he assumed, so he'd better hurry. That didn't seem to pose a problem, though, as Weasley hastily unbuttoned his shirt and slipped her fingers into his trousers. Draco let her do as she pleased and shoved up her dress; she smiled and pulled him even closer. With a gasp, she allowed him to pull down her tights and move her panties aside.

"I'd like to give your first Christmas gift to you already," he whispered.

She froze, confused, but then she seemed to understand and a smile spread on her pretty face. "But, Harry," she said, "I thought you wanted no kids yet – did you cancel the contraception spell for today?"

"I know what you dream of and what you wish for," he replied, kissing her throat lightly, "I know you dream of him being your son… I knew you wish you might bake biscuits and buy toys for your own children, and not for your siblings' children…"

"Oh Harry," she said, beaming, "I love you…" She kissed him, tenderly, her hands on his cheeks and leaning her forehead against his.

"I love you, too," Draco breathed and, to remind her of the fact that other things were important now, he squeezed her thighs lightly. Overjoyed, she kissed him, unzipping his pants and pushing his boxers aside and spread her thighs for him. The last time he had had sex with a woman had been with Pansy, Draco remembered, when he entered her; in the night before their flight from Hogwarts; the last night when the world had still been alright, the night before everything had begun falling apart. After the war, Pansy hadn't even wanted to look at him any longer because her parents had gone to Azkaban and she despised him and his parents for being traitors.

Weasley moaned, when he pushed into her, rubbing her clit with his fingers, and soon he fell into a quick rhythm – he had to hurry, hurry – and she screamed and her fingers dug into his shoulders when he came; and she sagged upon him, breathless. "Oh, Harry, I love you," she whispered into his neck. "This is what I have always wished for; a life with you and our children…"

"I know," Draco said quietly, stroking her sweat-tangled hair; he didn't want to tell her again he loved her because he thought he might not be very convincing. Instead, he lifted her up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom, where he put her down on the bed carefully and kissed her forehead. "I will be back with you in a moment," he said.

"I will wait," she said, curling up under the covers, an overjoyed smile on her face.

As quietly as possible, Draco hurried down the stairs; and he could feel that he was getting taller again and his face changed. He put on his old clothes again over Potter's – he would keep those. Then he waited for Potter, in the comfortable warmth of the entrance hall.

Potter came back only a few minutes after that, his arms wrapped around his upper body as he had not put on a jacket at his hasty departure. "You're still here," he said, sounding relieved. "I talked them into it, you may come in with your parents in two hours. I found out your address, should I pick you up?"

For the first time in years, Draco felt something like happiness, pulsing, and warming and fulfilling him. Everything would be well now. "Thank you," he said.

"My debt is paid," Potter said and Draco assumed he said it so Potter himself could believe it.

"Mine is, too," Draco said, smiling thinly. "I have already given her Christmas gift to your wife, a bit early, I know. Not me personally, of course, she didn't see me, but she has received her gift."

"But what –"

"The thing you cannot see," Draco said. "The one thing you have never seen. And she is happy. Isn't that what you believe you want?"

With that, he turned and hurried along the path to go back to his parents; he did not turn when Potter called his name.

xXx

When Draco came home, his mother was dead. He already knew when he opened the door to their flat; there was a smell of cold and death in the air. The path to his parents' bedroom was the hardest path he had ever walked. He did not even notice the tears running down his face when he knelt next to his mother's bed, burying his face in her cold chest.

"Draco," his father said and his voice was surprisingly calm. He had not cried, he had only waited for Draco to come back. "Your mother knew she would die. She told me this morning, before you came in. Today was the first day her mind has been clear, for the longest time." He smiled and looked out of the window, as though he could see something behind the dirty glass that Draco could not. "But she did not tell you as she did not want you to say goodbye to her, knowing what would happen. In peace I want to leave, she said."

"Mother…," Draco whispered, taking his mother's slack, ice cold hands. Her face was white as snow and Draco thought it must drown in her grey hair; her face was so small and thin, now, as her eyes were closed in death. But there was the faintest smile on her face, as it had always been when Draco was with her. As far as he could remember, she had always smiled when he was near, and every word she had spoken to him had been full of love, for him. "I have been so close," he whispered. "I tried everything, but it was not enough…"

"Your mother has been very proud of you," his father said, pulling her hands from Draco's carefully to fold them over her chest. "I told her what you have done for us, how grateful we must be for you, our beloved son. You should have let us die, Draco, then we would have left years and years ago, and you wouldn't have had to live like this."

Draco was not strong enough to scream at his father, he was not strong enough to sob, he sagged on the bed, staring at his mother's tiny, frail hands. "If only I had stayed today," he whispered.

His father reached out to him and stroked his hair with trembling fingers. "It was good you were gone," he whispered, "so she could leave in peace; and not in fear for you; so she was not forced to hold onto his life, but she could simply let go." He smiled, a smile like from a world far, far away. "She could feel no more pain, she only felt empty and light as a feather, as though she could fly." Draco wanted to hit his father so he would stop talking, but he could not raise his hands. "You know, there is a point when the pain stops, and you know everything is finished and you may let go… Your mother has loved you, Draco, like nothing in this world, you were the greatest treasure in our life, but there is the moment when you have to let go of us."

Then, he fell silent and Draco sobbed, gagging on his grief, on his pain which was so endless he almost couldn't feel it. He didn't know for how long he sat there, crying, but when he raised his head and took in his surroundings again, he heard that his father was breathing no longer. His eyes were closed and there was a tiny smile on his face and he had placed his hands over his wife's. Now, they were together in death and Draco was alone.

xXx

Potter was the only one who came to his parents' funeral. He brought a bouquet of flowers, white lilies, and he stood by the grave, next to Draco, listening to the Muggle priest's speech silently. Draco did not look at him and he ignored Potter's outstretched hand, too. The flowers tumbling onto his parent's coffins gave him a feeling of such finality even his tears stopped. The knowledge that his parents were gone now made his knees tremble so much he would have crumbled to the floor, hadn't Potter caught him.

For a long time they stood like that, shivering with cold, while the snow covered his parents' graves like a white blanket. When the grave diggers began closing his parents' grave, Potter turned him around gently and led him to the graveyard's exit. "Is there anything I may do for you?" he asked quietly.

Draco shook his head. "You have already done everything for me, Potter. Leave me alone."

xXx

Still, Potter came back to tell him he was now citizen of the Wizarding World again, and to give him money for a new wand. Then, he came to tell him he had gotten him a job at the apothecary in Diagon Alley. Draco never thanked him, and still Potter came back, during the week, in the evenings. Mostly, they only fucked and almost never spoke. "Do you want to talk?" Potter asked in March, when they lay naked in Draco's bed, Draco on top in him and his cock still in Potter's arse. They were in Draco's new flat, which Potter had gotten him – and he paid Draco's rent, of course; it was nicely furnished and well heated so Draco never had to feel cold again.

"No," Draco said, pulling out of him and rolling off him. "We don't have anything to say to each other, Potter."

Then Potter did not come back for a while, and Draco didn't know if he missed him, when he didn't come during summer, and not during autumn. A few days before Christmas, he suddenly returned, and he looked as he always did, well-dressed, with mussed up hair and exhausted from his work and his wife. Draco could only see in his eyes that something had changed.

"The child was born in September," he said dully, "he is named James."

"Congratulations," Draco said. "Are you happy?"

Potter smiled sadly. "Yes, we are."

"Why do you keep coming back to me, then?" Draco crossed his arms and pulled up his collar as an icy wind was blowing on the outside.

"I can't understand you, Draco," Potter said, "why did you do that?"

"I only did what you asked of me," Draco said calmly. "The thing is just: Did you really want to fulfil Weasley's wish?"

"It is too late now," Potter said. "She is pregnant again and happier than ever."

"Very well then, congratulations on your perfect family."

"Draco," Potter said quietly, "what else am I supposed to do to pay my debt? I cannot stand this any longer…"

Draco shook his head. "Why do you think you still have to pay your debt?"

"Why do you always hurt me?" Potter asked back.

"So you will finally understand and leave me alone," Draco said fiercely, wondering whether he hurt Potter or himself. "Don't you understand, Potter? We don't have anything in common. There is nothing between us and since my parents' death there is nothing that might connect our lives again."

Potter bit his lip as though he wanted to stop himself from saying something; but then, he bowed his head, turned and slowly walked down the stairs. Draco waited until he could hear the door closing, then he locked his own door, leaning against it; and though it did not even work in his dreams, he wished Potter had stayed.

xXx

A/N: Please review and tell me what you think! Please feel free to point out any mistakes you have found so I will know better for my next stories :)


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